There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st But in his motion like an angel sings.

There's nothing ill can dwell in such a temple. If the ill spirit have so fair a house, Good things will strive to dwell with't

Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind.

The weight of this sad time we must obey, Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say. The oldest hath borne most: we that are young Shall never see so much, nor live so long.

His neigh is like the bidding of a monarch, and his countenance enforces homage. He is indeed a horse.

Gloucester, we have done deeds of charity, made peace of enmity, fair love of hate, between these swelling wrong-incensed peers.

To show our simple skill, That is the true beginning of our end.